


Nothing Gold Can Stay

by mayamaia



Series: Scenes from the Departure Desk [5]
Category: Man From U.N.C.L.E.
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-26
Updated: 2012-09-26
Packaged: 2017-11-15 02:48:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 906
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/522304
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mayamaia/pseuds/mayamaia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes work spills over into the wrong place.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nothing Gold Can Stay

Her fingers grazed the back of her right hand as her eyes followed the departing man. A flash of golden hair and a glint of blue: he had turned back to give her a smile and a brief wave goodbye. Then he was gone.

 _I'll quit my job,_ she thought, _I can't do this. I'll just leave._

Sandy Fischer's hands felt heavy, and her eyes felt hot.

* * *

_-earlier that day-_

"I can't believe we're going to Timbuktu." Napoleon Solo accepted their tickets from Sandy with his characteristically beaming smile.

"What is strange about it? It is a city, it is in the newly formed Republic of Mali, and like most new nations, it is subject to the stresses of new nationhood and vulnerable to THRUSH. We go to such places all the time, Napoleon. And besides," Illya said with some asperity, "It is properly pronounced Tombouctou."

Solo turned to the lady at the desk. "Back me up here, Sandy. Is there nothing special about Timbuktu?"

She flushed a little, not wanting to take sides - or at any rate, not wanting to be on the opposite side from Illya. "Well, it is known for being off the beaten path... but only for that."

"Exactly!" Solo exclaimed, "That is what it is for. Timbuktu is _exotic_ , Illya." Sandy scowled at the theft of her neutrality, but Illya didn't seem to notice. Or care.

"Tombouctou may have been part of several empires over the centuries, but as of late the desert has stolen its wealth." Illya skewered his partner with a glare. "I suspect that the novelty will wear off shortly after our plane lands."

"Maybe it will," Napoleon allowed, "but at least they speak French there."

"As if you do."

Napoleon simply rolled his eyes at his partner. "Next you'll be complaining that it's merely the the language of the colonial oppressors and say I should be learning Bambara."

Illya grinned "Well as a matter of fact..."

"And that's my cue to escape to the gents," Napoleon hastily excused himself, leaving Illya alone at the desk with a dismayed Sandy Fischer.

"I am sorry Mr. Kuryakin," Sandy started to apologize, "I wasn't trying ..."

"Never mind, Sandy," Illya said, "Napoleon can twist almost anyone's words to his benefit."

"He certainly can," she emphatically agreed.

She was frantically looking for an excuse to continue conversation with him when out of the crowds rolled a can of hairspray, coming to rest behind her desk. Sandy thought nothing of it, but Illya surged into motion, covering her nose and mouth and dragging her over the top of the desk just as the can began to spew white smoke.

Stumbling, her lungs begging for air denied by the huge hand clamped over her face, she nevertheless giddily delighted in being clamped tightly in his arms as they hurried away from the deadly desk. Thirty feet away, Kuryakin slowed and began to scan the crowd, which was just beginning to notice something was amiss and spread away from the desk.

Sandy stared at the white cloud, fading as it began to dissipate, her mouth dry. Her mind whirled, piecing together everything she knew about Mr. Solo and Mr. Kuryakin - the Twins, as she and her coworkers liked to call them. Their constant travelling, the brawl they'd been caught in a couple of months back, the fact that Illya had once been allowed to use the airport intercom for the most cryptic of messages... The injuries she had at times seen the Twins carrying as they passed by on their return from parts unknown. She turned back to Illya, a question unformed on her lips.

Behind Kuryakin, an elderly woman a foot shorter than the man himself was poised with a syringe. Sandy didn't think, she just tugged Illya behind her and kicked at the descending hand. Her aim was wild, and caught the tiny old woman directly under the ribs. She heard the tiniest of cracks and the woman fell back, curled into herself and gasping.

Mr. Kuryakin had moved in front of her. Mr. Solo had arrived. Someone had taken the old woman away in handcuffs. Sandy became dimly aware that somebody was talking to her.

"...saved me. I cannot thank you enough."

Bright blue eyes were smiling at her. She looked at them and said, as if she had simply fixed someone's seating arrangements, "We are always glad to be of service."

There was a laugh. Mr. Solo made a joke about poor service in other airports. Illya was thanking her again. He had one of her hands, he was saying something about a restaurant, and about coming back in a week.

Sandy didn't really hear much of it, and then he was leaving and she was brushing her fingers over the hand Illya Kuryakin had held, that he would not be holding again.

* * *

The day was almost over, and Marsha Millner was contemplating a warm soak in the bath after her extra shift when he showed up at the desk.

"Excuse me, Marsha, could you tell me when Sandy will next be in? I was hoping to talk to her." It was Mr. Kuryakin, leaning in to the desk quickly as Mr. Solo waited for him.

She paused for a moment, reluctant to answer. _Too late_ , she thought, _Just too late._

"I'm sorry, Mr. Kuryakin. She quit two days ago."

Marsha turned away before she could see how he would react.

**Author's Note:**

> Nature's first green is gold,  
> Her hardest hue to hold.  
> Her early leaf's a flower;  
> But only so an hour.  
> Then leaf subsides to leaf.  
> So Eden sank to grief,  
> So dawn goes down to day.  
> Nothing gold can stay.
> 
> \- Robert Frost


End file.
